


Retrograde

by knightcaptain



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied Sheith, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2016-08-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:52:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7873327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcaptain/pseuds/knightcaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Paladin,” Zarkon drawls. The word rolls off his tongue like poison. So much mockery. “So the Black Lion chose you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wonderjan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderjan/gifts).



Shiro prides himself on very little -- except the knowledge that past combat experience will always point him to faster solutions in the future. Especially the kind leading out of sticky situations -- especially when faced with certain death.

The Princess has a panicked look in her eyes, and for a moment he thinks she looks smaller than ever, even in her Galra disguise. He remembers, briefly, what she’d said about her father, how she’d lost him, and how important he’d been to the Altean kingdom -- to the world, because of Voltron. He cannot help but think that she, too, is just as important -- she just refuses to see it, and instead pins it all on Voltron, on the paladins. Things bigger than her.

Not this time. He turns his gaze towards the oncoming horde, chest constricting. Not this time.

He pushes Allura through the opening, the sound of Galra soldiers’ footfalls matching the frantic drumming in his chest. There’s no time, she’s important -- so he catches her by surprise and pushes her through the closing door. Her mouth opens to form his name, strained and desperate as she cries out. Her eyes are bright with fear -- for him.

It is the last shred of light he sees before they overwhelm him. A blow to the back of his head, and he spirals, tumbling into the abyss that awaits eagerly for him.

* * *

Shiro counts the minutes, scratching lightly against the wall of his holding cell. Or at least, he tries to. The sound of his cybernetic hand against the metal creates an uncomfortable screeching sound. The wall is made of something impenetrable -- he barely makes a dent or scratch. He curses under his breath, hands trembling from the cold, and thinks of Allura. He thinks of his team, how they must be fighting to bring him back. Hunk, holding them all together; Pidge, with their lightning quick wit and eye for detail; Lance, brave and full of vision; Keith --

Bright and burning, with resolve like steel. He tries to imagine the warm touch of Keith’s palm against the back of his neck, gentle but purposeful. _I’m glad I found you._

They’ll come, he tells himself, unwilling to give in to fear. He goes back to scratching at the wall, counting the seconds, minutes, hours until his paladins come for him.

* * *

Zarkon calls for him a day after his capture.

Shiro is trembling with anger the moment he lays his eyes on the one leading the Galra Empire. Countless lives, decimated. He thinks of the Balmera. He thinks of Sam Holt, of Matthew -- of Pidge, and what they've lost. A million thoughts race through his head, but one stands out like a shrill cry in the midst of a thunderstorm.

 _Murderer_.

The Emperor gives him a knowing look. At the wave of his hand, the drones release Shiro, and he falls to his knees -- weak. The cuffs around his wrists drain his strength, his energy, but he still has enough to lift his head, to burn his gaze right through Zarkon. _Murderer_.

“Paladin,” Zarkon drawls. The word rolls off his tongue like poison. So much mockery. “So the Black Lion chose you.”

Shiro says nothing. His throat is burning with thirst and a desire to scream.

“I suppose,” Zarkon continues, gaze transfixed on Shiro, “that it is because you and I are not so different.”

The words seem to hit him right across the face. He squeezes his teeth together, anger flaring at the edges of his mind, a fire threatening to consume --

“I am _nothing_ like you.”

The murderer laughs, descending the dais and leaving his throne behind. By the throne stands a druid, watching with hollow, unseeing eyes.

Zarkon approaches Shiro, looking down at him with unveiled disdain. “You think I enjoy being associated with your species, _Paladin_ \--” he spits the title like an insult, now “-- when the Galra have reigned over the galaxy for thousands of years?” A rough, gauntleted hand seizes Shiro’s chin. “ _I_ have power you do not. Only I am worthy of Voltron’s prowess. Of the galaxy.”

“You’re not fit to rule,” Shiro hisses, neck straining painfully. He notes the ridges in Zarkon’s skin, remembers just how _different_ they are, by virtue of their race, their species-- “You’re a monster. A killer. Who will bow to the likes of you?”

“You are on your knees, are you not?” Zarkon’s expression is unchanged, but there is the slightest change in quality of his tone. Meaningful. Amused. Shiro wants to throttle him right there and then, but his restraints prevent him from doing so. “Without you, Voltron cannot be formed. The children who pilot the Lions with you are helpless without their leader. You’ve lost. Do you not see it?”

Shiro’s glare sharpens. “Not yet. There’s still hope.”

“Four Lions against the might of the Galra Empire,” Zarkon says sardonically, baring his fangs, yellowed and sharp. “Yes, I can see there is reason to be fearful and cautious.” His grip on Shiro’s chin tightens. “Do not lie to yourself. You are a tactical leader as I am -- you see the battlefield clearer than anyone else. That is why we are the head of Voltron.”

 _We_. As if --

“You disgust me,” Shiro spits, voice cracking under pressure. “We’re not alike at all.”

Zarkon chuckles, and his expression breaks for a split second. “I admire your resolve, _Shiro_.” Something different wraps itself around his name -- Shiro stirs, breathless and dizzy from dehydration, and tries to figure it out.

“I will steal Voltron from them,” the Emperor goes on, bending so his face is mere inches from Shiro’s, “and see if the Black Lion responds to the call of its former Paladin. If it doesn’t, then perhaps twisting your mind will serve as a suitable alternative. How does that sound, Shiro?”

“Don’t -- call me that,” Shiro breathes. “You haven’t earned the right.”

Zarkon releases him, shoving him to the ground. The calm in his voice is chilling.

“Perhaps that will change in due time.”

* * *

Zarkon’s words haunt him into sleeplessness.

 _The Black Lion without its paladin… they can’t form Voltron. They’re no good without the Lion._ Shiro presses his back against the wall, chest rising as he takes a slow breath. _They should scatter the Lions, then. It’s the only option for now, until I find a way out._

He continues telling himself this until he slips into reluctant slumber, where Zarkon reigns in his deepest nightmares.

* * *

They cuff him and drag him away the next morning -- at least, he assumes it is morning -- and take him up to the tower, where Zarkon resides and no one else. The corridor ahead is dimly lit, shrouded with inconceivable intentions, and neither the Druid nor the drones say a word to him. He doesn’t bother speaking to them, either -- none here have the slightest regard for the usurper, the one who thieved the Black Lion from their Emperor’s hands.

Zarkon is draped in dark purple, his robe spilling across the marble flooring like dark blood. Shiro is thrown at his feet -- again -- and the Druid leaves with their drones, wordless and uncaring. Perhaps this is where he meets his fate -- where Zarkon drains him of every drop of blood until it stains his robe darker than ever.

Shiro struggles to his feet, the fire of defiance flickering between his ribs. He charges straight for Zarkon, screaming hoarsely.

In an instant, Zarkon swipes him aside like he’s nothing -- sheer strength, even without his armor. Shiro is sent flying, crashing against the wall, and he cries out. Blood on his tongue, from biting too hard from the shock of impact. Zarkon’s claws come around the back of his neck, pulling him up until his feet are no longer touching the ground -- golden eyes greet him, menacing and heavy with something else.

“Ever the warrior,” Zarkon purrs, and that is all the warning Shiro receives before he is flung towards the floor. He crumples in pain where he lays, curling into himself. Somewhere behind him, he hears Zarkon approaching. “What will it take to break you, I wonder?”

“I’m not your-- toy,” Shiro growls, eyes open. Everything is vivid--sharpened with anger, _outrage_. “The universe is not your playground--”

“Pity. I’m having the time of my life.”

“No--” Shiro spits. “Don’t _touch_ me, you _murderer!_ ” Zarkon is towering over him, robe flowing like blood from his hands -- hands that are now picking him up again and hurling him against the wall, fingers curling around his throat, tightening and tightening --

Zarkon is smiling.

“You command no one, not even your Lions.” Another hand, reaching between his thighs, careless and rough -- Shiro recoils in disgust, struggling to raise his legs to kick the Galra away to no avail. His heart trembling behind his ribs, rattling the rails of this new prison he’s been thrust into -- no, no, _no, please --_

Zarkon presses his mouth against Shiro’s ear as he presses on, pulling against the band of his trousers roughly. “You are quite the magnificent creature, Shiro,” he murmurs darkly, “You could be my greatest weapon. You could use that arm of yours to suffocate the life out of your precious paladins, the princess--”

“No!” Shiro closes his eyes, trembling in his skin, the panicked drumbeat of terror too much to bear even in his own mind.

“Yes,” Zarkon breathes, running his mouth along the line of Shiro’s jaw. Dirty. Tainted. Shiro keeps his eyes shut, though his body is shaking from the overwhelming feeling of disgust. “Yes, Shiro-- has no one ever told you how exquisite you are? A shame, really-- a body like this, with so much power, so much life-- it would be such a shame to _crush_ it all. So why not--mmm, why not _enjoy_ it, I say?”

He opens his mouth in a soundless scream, purple robes--darkened with shadow--overwhelms him and consumes him whole. The image of Keith splinters in his mind, the rest of them lost to his frayed senses--no, please, _please, don’t come any closer_

When Zarkon ravages him at long last, Shiro finds enough voice to scream.

* * *

In fractured dreams, flitting in and out of his mind’s eye, Allura is holding him. No, wait--not a dream. He thinks he smells the fragrance of flowers, laid to rest in the field by her side--her voice tells him everything is fine. He is home, now--he is where Zarkon will no longer be able to touch him.

“You saved my life,” she murmurs, close to his ear. A gentle kiss is pressed against his temple. “I will always remember your sacrifice, Shiro.”

“Sacrifice,” he echoes, lost to himself. Something about the word rings hollow, lacking substance. It doesn’t stir him the way he expects it to. “Zarkon, he--”

“Don’t speak,” she croons, gentle and affectionate. “Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

He finds it difficult to focus on her face, her features--the very smile that makes her so striking, from their first meeting. He tries to blink, to focus his gaze on her, but he cannot capture her image no matter how hard he tries, like trying to grasp at the rays of sunlight with bare hands. Futile. Impossible. Something about the situation escapes him, setting off a distant alarm in his mind, though his senses are dulled. Movement slowed.

Almost as if--

“Voltron,” he murmurs, weak, through half-lidded eyes. “Do we still have--?”

“ _Voltron_?” An edge creeps into her voice. “Let’s not speak of it, Shiro. You should rest--”

His eyes flutter open again-- _focus_. “Allura. We need Voltron… to defeat Zarkon. The Galra--”

“ _Voltron is not yours to claim!_ ”

Her voice, twisted beyond recognition, shocks him out of his reverie. Shiro sits up, prying himself from Allura’s grip before turning to face her --

Only to find Zarkon’s steely gaze fixed on him. His lips curled skyward in a poisonous smile.

“ _Good morning, Paladin_.”

* * *

He is thrust back into the hands of the Druid after he wakes, throat dry beyond belief and body aching with insidious pain. Zarkon waves away the drone attempting to cuff Shiro, eyes trained on the paladin with an eerie calm.

“No need,” he says, triumphant. “He is broken enough. He will be brought back here tonight, after we are finished with the Altean princess and her little earthling pups.”

Shiro turns at the mention of Allura and the paladins. “You’re not--”

“You will watch beside me,” Zarkon says, unaffected even after provoking Shiro’s reaction. He gazes out the see-through panel, out at the stars that drift beyond their reach. Something soft, _pensive_ , enters his voice. “And you will behold the might of the Galra Empire.”

He barely has time to say ‘no’ before they drag him from the royal chambers. He finds it in himself to fight back, and swings his powered hand at one of the drones, slicing through it cleanly. They overwhelm him in a matter of minutes--he is still drained from Zarkon, from the night before--and they cuff him again, clipping his wings so he cannot fly.

* * *

The bruises are darker in the shadows. Shiro lowers his gaze, staring at the marks on his arms. He remembers every single one -- how they were afflicted upon him, in what manner, and always: Zarkon’s face every time he screamed, he begged to be let go. His heartbeat remains frantic in its cage, demanding release, until it steals him of breath and he is panting and heaving against the cold, unfeeling metal wall of his cell. His spine tingles against it, through the thin fabric of his suit, and it reminds him of Keith; curious fingers trailing down the curve of his back, dark eyes soft with affection, and voice full of possession--

_I’d do it again. I’d risk my life again for you._

_I’m going to find you, over and over, lifetime after lifetime, until we can stay like this forever. Shiro. Shiro--_

“ _Shiro_.”

He opens his eyes, heart coming to a standstill. In the tiny cell, he hears just the tiniest trace of reverberation. A voice--and not his own. _Impossible._

“Keith?”

He blinks away the dryness in his eyes, staring into the dark--waiting. Seconds pass, then minutes. He lets out a ragged breath. _Hallucinations. Nothing more._

Then it comes again, deeper this time: “Shiro. Hold on.”

“Keith!” He gets to his feet, piercing the darkness with the purple glow of his hand. It hums a soothing sound, though he finds no familiar face to behold. “Where are you--”

“I am not he.”

The voice reverberates, deep and true, in his mind. Shiro turns, incredulous-- “Who are you? You’re--in my head--?”

“I am your guardian, Paladin. I am-- _yours_.”

It only takes him a moment--his eyes are wide open by the time he finds his answer. Not Keith, no--something far larger, far more… animalistic. It speaks, gentle, in his thoughts, his mind, as if they are _one_.

“... Black Lion?”

A flicker of enthusiastic acknowledgement tickles the back of his mind. He can _feel_ the Lion’s gladness, for one reason or another, and it catches in his chest--he laughs, just as the voice inside him speaks again.

“ _We have come for you_.”

The sirens begin to scream.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, consider buying me a coffee at https://ko-fi.com/L3L05I4Q - every donation goes a long way in paying for school. Thank you!


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